


Lost (and found) in Novigrad

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29537580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Lambert loses his eyesight after a contract. He spends a week–maybe even two–wandering the streets of Novigrad, unable to navigate his way to safety and food because of the noises, smells and dangers of a human settlement. Thankfully, destiny plays her hand, bringing Eskel and Jaskier to his side just when he needs them the most.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 20
Kudos: 153





	Lost (and found) in Novigrad

Cadaverine in the eyes. For a human, it’d be permanent. The mouth of a graveir was a petri dish of bacteria, rot and whatever else it’d got its disgustingly long tongue inside of. Lambert had interrupted dinner time and hadn’t realised there was a fourth hiding behind a large, fallen log, snacking on the corpse of some captain of the guard. It got a lucky shot in and he’d finished the fight off blind. 

That was over a week ago. Perhaps more.

His sight was beginning to return, but the murky grey with dark shapes looming by were more unsettling than the absolute darkness of before. He squinted threateningly at every set of passing footsteps and pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. Navigating without sight was exhausting. Every sense was stretched as Lambert felt his way through the world while trying to maintain the illusion of having all his faculties in working order. It was impossible in settlements. Where the reek of excrement and cacophony of noise crowded in on his remaining senses, leaving him reeling and nauseous.

So, he could only really move at night, but that was dangerous. More likely to run into bandits and cutthroats. Not necessarily an issue normally, but weak and hurt it wouldn’t be a walk in the park. He slumped now beside a stacked pile of crates recently unloaded from one of the Skelligen vessels that had pulled into harbour overnight. The overwhelming stench of fish and salt went some way in drowning out the even worse smell of the open sewers running down the far end of the street.

There were times on the Path when it all got too much, when he thought about the high cliffs on the Cidaris coast and how easy it would be to just—

But something always stopped him. Like Destiny played her hand in the moments when he was at his lowest. With his chin tilted down to his chest, his shoulders hunched over and his cloak pulled over his head, he thought himself unidentifiable to the rest of the world. He’d tucked his swords and packs out of sight, not that the latter now had much in them. He’d exhausted his already low supply of food two days ago despite fastidious rationing, and he couldn’t risk walking into a tavern and having every lout in there seeing an easy meal ticket.

Lay low. Meditate. Ignore the hunger pangs. _Survive._

“Lambert?”

Every muscle in his body clenched tight and his hand dropped instinctively towards the sword hilts tucked down by his side. He didn’t recognise the voice immediately. His hungry, anxious mind only cottoned onto the name, and generally people who knew his name on the Path were not good news. And then—

“Eskel? Eskel! It’s Lambert, come quickly,” the voice was familiar; it was meant for singing and banter. The owner fell to his knees at Lambert’s side, long fingers curled around the edge of his hood and pulled it away. There were only a handful of men on the entire Continent—ordinary men, without magic or mutation—that would not cower from a Witcher or seek to harm one that was wounded.

“Bard?” Lambert croaked. His throat was dry. He hadn’t been able to sniff out a source of fresh water, and despite his immunity disease, not even he could bring himself to drink from the fetid puddles pooling in the streets. He wasn’t that desperate. _Not yet._ Heavy footfalls approached then, and a warm familiar hand cupped his jaw. Attached to those callused fingers were a bouquet of familiar scents; arenaria and beggartick blossom, for starters. Beneath that though were memories of fires stacked with cedarwood, of tender lips and even gentler caresses. “Eskel?” It wasn’t a sob. _It fucking wasn’t._

“Yeah, little wolf, it’s me,” Eskel replied, scooping Lambert towards him. There was no resistance. No attempt to maintain pride and that was worrying in itself. “What happened? You’re just bones.”

“Graveir spat in my eyes,” Lambert replied, head flopping to Eskel’s shoulder. He hadn’t fully registered his rescue yet, just that he was safe in that moment. “It must’ve been eating something fucking rotten, because… I… I can’t see. It’s just grey. I don’t…” Lambert panted, and Eskel’s hand stroked gently over his greasy hair. 

“Alright, alright, can you walk? We’re going to take you to the Kingfisher Inn. Jaskier’s got some connections there. Right?” Eskel must’ve looked across at Jaskier, who nodded silently at first, and then—

“Yes, yes of course, dear heart,” his voice strained with worry, and Lambert felt his fingertips trace over his eyebrow. “Food, bath, and we’ll send for a healer. We—this has to be fixable, yes?” 

Lambert gave an affirmative grunt and then struggled to his feet with Eskel’s assistance. “My bags—,” he started, but heard the jungle of his belt and the rustle of burlap as Jaskier plucked them from the ground. Eskel had to lift him onto Scorpion’s back—he didn’t have the strength in his legs or core to pull himself into the saddle—and they left the reeking harbour behind.

The Kingfisher Inn was the largest tavern in the whole of Novigrad, and the most expensive. It was located in the northeast corner of the Hierarch Square, in the very centre of the massive city. It was a popular haunt for Priscilla, the known place to assist mages in escaping persecution and named by the owner, Olivier, after one of Jaskier’s poems. It was a haven. A safe place for the magical and mysterious alike. Without the others to guide him, there was no way in hell Lambert would’ve stumbled across it on his own. 

He could smell the stables as they approached them, his nose wrinkling as it did with every new scent, and accepted Eskel’s arms in helping him down from Scorpion’s saddle. “Stay close to my side,” Eskel whispered near his ear, his voice like a balm over the pain of the noise. So much fucking noise. “I won’t let anyone touch you, I promise.”

He knew. _Of course, he did._ Lambert’s hatred of unsolicited touch from those he didn’t know was no secret to his lovers. Pressed close to Eskel’s reassuring bulk, with the bard walking ahead, they entered the Inn. Lambert expected to be swamped immediately by braying laughter, scraping furniture and clashing tankards, but instead he heard a woman’s voice and the gentle strum of a familiar instrument. _A lute_. There were a few murmurs of quiet conversation, but otherwise everyone was still—silent—and watching the performer. “These scars long have yearned for your tender caress, to bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own, rend my heart open, then your love profess.”

Eskel navigated his way deftly around the tables, shoving several men out the way as they stood to retrieve themselves a drink, and Jaskier walked ahead to negotiate a room as quickly as possible. Climbing the stairs proved to be an ordeal, and Eskel ended up carrying Lambert most of the way. The room smelled clean, with a scrubbed floor and bed linens that weren’t infested with lice. “I’ve ordered a bath up,” Jaskier murmured, followed by the dull thud of Lambert’s bags and his lute case hitting the floor. “Eskel, tell me what poultices you need, and I’ll send a boy.”

“Hmm, lemme check first,” Eskel placed Lambert gently into the armchair by the fire. It was beaten, with its stuffing hanging out the cushions, but a damned sight more comfortable than the cobblestones of the harbour. He tilted Lambert’s head back, but met resistance as he tried to touch around his eyes. “Relax, little wolf. I need to look. I won’t hurt you.” 

“Mmph,” Lambert huffed, but allowed his face to be cradled as Eskel tugged at the edges of his eyes. The sockets were sore, his eyes in a constant state of burning discomfort, and Eskel’s gentle probing proved almost too much to handle.

“I’ve got the arenaria and beggartick,” Eskel murmured; Lambert mused he must’ve been picking it shortly before entering the city. “Gonna’ need blowball, cortinarius and pringrape.” A quill scratched across parchment as Jaskier made a note. “Get me some bandages too. Thick ones.”

“Any need for a healer? A mage?”

Lambert was about to open his mouth to protest, but Eskel harumphed. “Not for this. I’ve seen it enough over the years.”

 _Thank fuck for Eskel’s overwhelming competence._ Lambert slumped in the chair, and all he could do now was listen as the others moved around him. A few minutes later he heard the heavy thump of a large basin making it into the room, and then the periodic slosh of water as it was filled. The door clicked shut softly, and Eskel crouched down before him; a dark, amorphous shape beneath the general blur of grey. “There’s no one here but me, and Jaskier’ll be arriving back soon. Can I undress you?”

Lambert scowled, knowing full well Eskel was doing the thing he did, with the consent and the careful handling of Lambert’s agency, and it almost made him angry. “Yes, no… I can do it, just help with the armour, alright?”

Together, they divested Lambert of his clothes. Eskel placed his armour to one side for cleaning later, and carefully plucked open the buckles of his boots and gambeson. He stunk to high heaven—stress, sweat and the filth of the streets—but Eskel still pulled him close as they staggered across to the bath water. Lambert lifted his foot and Eskel guided it over the lip of the tub for him, providing his shoulder as support. The hot water engulfed his aching limbs and punched a low groan from his chest. Oh fuck, it was so good.

Lambert, unlike the others, didn’t indulge in a full bath often. Getting completely naked out in the big bad world, in his mind, wasn’t a particularly intelligent thing to do. Many a noble and king had been murdered with his gonads hanging out and his bare ass open to the wind; he should know, he’d stuck the knife in enough of them. Don’t tell Eskel. 

The water bubbled as Eskel coaxed it a little hotter with a twist of igni, and Lambert could smell the subtle scents of bath salts. Jaskier’s. “How long have you been like this?” Eskel asked softly. Lambert felt the brush of his bare forearm against his outer thigh as he soaked the washcloth in his hands; he must’ve taken his gambeson off and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbow.

“A while,” Lambert grated out, feeling foolish now that his equilibrium was returning. “Managed to get myself stuck in this fucking town. Couldn’t find my way out again.”

“Novigrad’s… tough,” Eskel acknowledged; the patter of water droplets on the surface of the bath, the slosh of his hand moving through it as he wet the soap. “I’m going to wash your face first, while the water’s still clean, then everything else. Need to know if anything hurts, any other injuries.”

“No, just… it’s fine, just do what you need to do,” Lambert hunkered down, but it was impossible to stay tense when Eskel began to work. He wiped the grime away from Lambert’s face, rinsing his beard and then lathering soap through his hair. The rub of Eskel’s fingers alone across his scalp was enough to melt him to putty; slow, deliberate circles at just the right pressure. They worked down his neck to his shoulders next; across his lean chest and sunken stomach beneath the waterline. It didn’t take long for Witchers to start wasting. Metabolisms and all that.

The door opened briefly and Lambert tensed, but he knew the cadence of that gait and relaxed seconds later. Jasker. And he’d brought food. Good food. Meaty stew stuffed with potatoes, and freshly baked bread. Lambert’s mouth began to water and he couldn’t hide his eagerness as he sat up in the bath. “Lean back, my dear,” Jaskier spoke softly, kneeling down on the other side of the tub. “It’s all yours. Not going anywhere. So that Eskel can work unimpeded, may I feed it to you?” 

Lambert really didn’t care. It just needed to be in his face yesterday. These two had seen him at his lowest before. Was it worse than this? Probably not. “Yeah, fine… c’mon, I feel like a zeugl’s gnawing through my insides.”

Eskel chuckled. “Then we would have a problem.” He was working over Lambert’s arms, beneath them and then down his sides. His hair, face and beard were clean, and now Eskel could see the dark, greeny-black of the graveir’s poison around his eyes. He glanced at Jaskier, who agreed wordlessly to stay quiet about it and, instead, the bard focused on his task.

“Slowly,” Jaskier chided as Lambert practically bit his gods-damned fingers off when a chunk of bread was offered. “If you’re sick on this doublet, we’ll have a falling out.”

“If it’s like the others, it might be an improvement,” Lambert smirked and Jaskier thumped him lightly on the shoulder before retrieving the spoon from the bowl. The stew was perfectly seasoned, with thick, fatty cuts of meat crammed with energy that Lambert’s body craved; he wolfed down the first few before Jaskier could adjust, but began to savour the taste as Eskel worked over his belly and down his thighs. His skin thrummed in appreciation, each caress left ripples of sensation behind even when the hand had moved on, and Lambert could feel his body stirring… 

“That’s a good sign,” Eskel growled; _the cheeky shit_. Lambert shuffled lower in the bath, and Jaskier leaned over to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Weak for a little tenderness, aren’t you?” The bard teased, and then proceeded to feed Lambert the last few morsels of bread. This time the Witcher nipped deliberately at his fingers, lapping at one moments before it drew away. Those clever digits needed to be on Lambert’s skin, not teasing around his mouth. “Later, my love. We need to sort your eyes, and get you wrapped up in bed for some rest.”

“Best do the second bit first, he won’t want to move once I’ve got the poultice on,” Eskel murmured, taking his time beneath Lambert’s legs as the other invited him with a cheeky splay of the knees. Any other time and Eskel would’ve indulged him; the sensation of such delicate, bath soft skin against his palm was a delight, but he had more pressing matters.

With a little bit of awkward negotiation, Eskel helped Lambert out of the bath and wrapped him in a laundered towel provided by the owner. When Eskel had said Jaskier was connected, he really hadn’t been lying. Lambert allowed himself to be pampered, mumbling in appreciation as strong hands dried him, and then helped him into a soft pair of braies before leading him to the bed. 

The sheets were actually pleasant. Not the scratchy fibres he was used to on the occasion he was frivolous and bought himself a room for the night. The pillow behind his head was stuffed with… were those actual feathers? Lambert closed his eyes tightly. Contrasted to the overwhelming relief of being fed, bathed and comfortable, the pain in his eyes was becoming more acute.

Jaskier stayed with him as Eskel left to prepare the poultice. Those soft, bardic hands with the accenting calluses stroked over Lambert’s chest in soothing circles, enjoying the soft fluff of his chest hair now that he was freshly cleaned. “Hmm, this one’s new,” he traced a delicate fingertip down a scar over Lambert’s ribs; Lambert could practically hear Jaskier’s grin when he shivered.

“Yeah, fell over while cleaning out an endrega nest, not even that good a story,” Lambert grumbled. “Broke two ribs as well.”

“Any story in which the hero survives is a good story,” Jaskier prodded his chest, and then went back to those slow circles. “This has done absolutely nothing to alleviate my worries about leaving you all to wander the Path. Are you sure you can’t simply hunt as a pack, hm? Are you not the School of the Wolf? Howl at the moon, sleep in piles, run the wilds with your partners and family.”

“Perhaps one day,” Eskel called over; Lambert could hear the grate of a pestle and mortar, and the trickle of spirit as he mixed his herbs together. “But for now, there’s so few of us, too much work, and not enough pay for it to happen.”

“Witchering is the only profession I know of where scarcity of workers still allows for low wages,” Jaskier grumbled, and then assisted Lambert in taking a long drink of water before Eskel settled down on the edge. “How long will this take to heal?”

“Difficult to say,” Eskel grunted, unwrapping the clean bandages over Lambert’s chest so that he could pack them with the poultice. “This is gonna’ sting. Don’t crush Jaskier’s hand, he needs it.”

“I will sacrifice my hand for my Witchers,” Jaskier stated, shoving his fingers into Lambert’s as if to prove his point. “Here, darling.”

“No need, bard, I’m not a pu—fucking—shit—bollocks—FUCK!” Lambert practically bowed off the bed as Eskel rested the saturated bandages over his eyes. It was as if he’d just poured liquid fire into his eye sockets. His entire body shook with the pain, and his free hand fisted the sheets until his knuckles bleached white; Jaskier let his other go in favour of stroking his arms and chest, while Eskel rested a warm palm over the top of the offending bandage to keep it settled.

“Give it a moment, it’ll settle, it’s just reacting with the poison,” Eskel whispered. “It’s alright. Deep breaths.”

As promised, the pain began to abate into a dull thrum. His breathing calmed and the two warm bodies either side of him left. They weren’t gone for long though; he heard the rustle of clothes as they hit the floor, the creak of the bed as their weight returned, and then the brush of their warm, bare skin as they curled up against him. Both bodies strong and soft with hair; Eskel slightly thicker everywhere, but Jaskier just as pleasingly broad and firm. You could really forget just how thick those biceps were underneath his poofy doublet. Eskel pressed a kiss to his damp cheek; his tears had mixed with the poultice and left damp trails to his beard. “Sleep, little wolf. We’ll stay until you’re better again.”

“No, it’s fine, you need to—.”

“Enough,” Jaskier grumbled, open palm resting on Lambert’s chest. “What we need to do is stay at your side until you’re well enough. Now hush, do as Eskel says, we’ll eat again when you wake.”

Swamped in warm blankets, with a belly full of good food, Lambert found it easy to drift off despite the dull pain in his face. The smells, the noise, the press of humanity, all faded into the background. In the arms of Eskel and Jaskier, he was safe. _He was loved._


End file.
